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Old Bookstore Mysteries
Volumes 1-3

Isabella Bassett
 Copyright © 2021 Isabella Bassett

All rights reserved. The moral right of the author has been asserted.

Old Bookstore Mysteries: Volumes 1-3

(Out Of Print, Murderous Misprint, Suspicious Small Print)

Kindle Edition
Published July 1, 2021
ASIN: B08W57VZW5

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the
product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real
persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or

transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying,
recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
 Contents

Title Page
Copyright
Books by Isabella Bassett
Book 1: Out Of Print
1 On the way back from Italian class
2 An old bookstore
3 The unwelcome customer
4 A death in the newspaper
5 A trip to Isola Caresio
6 A garden party
7 A Bishop’s curse
8 A visit from the island
9 A book on the counter
10 A chase through cobblestone alleys
11 A secret revealed
12 A night of bonfires
13 To save a treasure
14 In a meadow
Out Of Print Author's Notes
Book 2: Murderous Misprint
1 Scaredy-cat
2 The sorcerer’s house
3 Death of a witch
4 A book out of place
5 Last-minute customer
6 Witchwort
7 The witching hour
8 The coven
9 The thief’s story
10 Old friends
11 Who is lying
12 Not so scenic drive
13 Under a cherry tree
Murderous Misprint Author’s Notes
Book 3: Suspicious Small Print
1 A treasure map
2 A party at the castle
3 Zweihander, a sword for two hands
4 Voices among the shadows
5 A visit from the past
6 Sticky fingers in the treasure trove
7 Longswords and other forms of exercise
8 Man is not mightier than the sword
9 Lady Justice
10 The Executioner
11 Of two maps
12 A secret passage
13 A dead end
14 The Executioner’s daughter
15 Coffee and cake
About The Author
 Books by Isabella Bassett
The Old Bookstore Two-Hour Cozy Mysteries Series
Out Of Print
Murderous Misprint
Suspicious Small Print
Reckless Reprint
Incriminating Imprint
Scandalous Snowprint: A Christmas Whodunnit
 Book 1: Out Of Print
The Old Bookstore Two-Hour Cozy Mysteries
Book 1

By Isabella Bassett

Copyright © 2021 Isabella Bassett

All rights reserved. The moral right of the author has been
asserted.

Out Of Print
(Old Bookstore Two-Hour Cozy Mysteries Book 1)
Kindle Edition
Published March 15, 2021

ASIN: B08W57VZW5

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents

either are the product of the author's imagination or are used
fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is
coincidental and not intended by the author.

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval

system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic,
mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express
written permission of the publisher.
 1 On the way back from Italian class
Spring is so different here, Anne thought as she walked back
from Italian class–‘for adults and recent newcomers’. Anne liked
lingering, exploring the old streets of the small town, looking for
clues to its history in the details she noticed. She wondered if other
people noticed them as well.
Deep peals of church bells echoed off the stone walls
surrounding her. Anne checked her watch, seven o’clock, and hurried
along the cobblestone path. She looked up at the bell tower of
Chiesa dei Santi Pietro e Paolo soaring above a cluster of brightly
painted houses. Built in the Middle Ages from the same gray Ticino
granite Anne saw used everywhere–cobbles, garden walls, houses–
the tower was visible from anywhere in town and marked the center
of the pedestrians-only Old Town.
She wound her way through the narrow alley, the stone walls
radiating heat stored from earlier in the day. The smell of blossoms
hung in the still evening air. Now and then, glimpses of bright pink
azaleas hinted at luscious gardens beyond the high walls, while the
crown of a palm tree suggested other exotic plants–banana trees,
agave, cacti–growing hidden from view. It was only the beginning of
April, but spring was in full swing in Ascona.
In Boston, snow is probably just starting to melt, Anne thought.
A couple of European-tour vacations, years ago, during which
she had visited the big Swiss cities in the north, had given Anne the
impression that Switzerland was like New England–lots of snow with
plenty of good skiing and hiking.
But this was Southern Switzerland.
Anne had moved to Switzerland last year with her husband,
giving up her career so he could advance his. The pictures of Ascona
online–a Mediterranean-looking town with exotic gardens, palm
trees, and candy-colored houses nestled in the folds of the Alps–had
enchanted them. The town had the old-world charm and history
Anne craved and was just a 30-minute drive to Ben’s new job. She
didn’t have to think twice about the move to Europe. She saw it as a
chance to leave the mundane behind and follow her dreams, much
like in the escape-to-the-country memoirs–A Year in Provence or
Under the Tuscan Sun–she had enjoyed reading.
But eight months on, Anne had to admit that she hadn’t
achieved much.
The stone-walled alleyway ended abruptly and opened to a
street flanked by elegant old buildings, in faded pinks and yellows,
accented with green window shutters. Designer clothes and
accessories filled the storefronts dominating the ground floors.
Strolling past, Anne liked to imagine what these buildings were
before they became boutiques, jewelers, or wine sellers. Two round
lemon trees in square galvanized pots stood guard at the entrance–
closed for the day–of a small shop that sold locally-made cheese,
olive oil, and wine. Wicker chairs, stacked three-high, lined the walls
of a cafe. Why does everything close so early here, Anne wondered
in disbelief.
Anne followed the shopping street as it turned and merged into
the lakeside promenade that ran along the shore of Lago Maggiore.
Italianate villas in vivid hues, now converted into expensive lake-
view hotels, lined one side of the promenade, and plane trees, with
their characteristic knobby branches, lined the other. The whole
ensemble gave the pedestrian avenue an allure of a by-gone era of
privilege and glamor.
Ascona was a place where the rich, mostly from the north, came
for vacation, to bask in its Mediterranean warmth without having to
leave the reliable efficiency of Switzerland. Tourists flocked to the
shopping streets, packed with glossy boutiques, or to crowded cafes
on the promenade where they could people-watch presided over by
neatly dressed waiters.
Anne turned to look at the smooth expanse of the lake. Its
surface danced with dappled gold, and white sailboats glided along
the horizon. The Brissago Islands were visible in the distance. She
had visited the botanical park on the larger island last summer, and
had enjoyed sending photos from the gardens back home to her
friends, and having them doubt that the luxuriant collection of exotic
subtropical plants could be Switzerland.
Visible across the lake was Italy. Ascona’s long history was
intimately entwined with that of its southern neighbor. The town’s
coat of arms still displayed the papal keys, a testament to an earlier
alliance and dependence. To Anne, Ascona looked and felt much like
Italian towns she had visited: nineteenth century palazzos dotted the
shores of the lake, ancient stone houses crowded the narrow
cobbled alleys leading away from the shore, and restaurants served,
almost exclusively, Italian staples like pizza, pasta, polenta, and
Tiramisu.
And everyone spoke Italian.
Anne sighed. As her brother–who vacationed every summer in
Tuscany–never failed to mention, Italian was such an easy language
to pick up. But she was having a hard time learning it. And her lack
of Italian was preventing her from making local friends or looking for
a part-time job.
She knew she was one of the lucky few who got to quit her job
and go on a permanent European vacation. And she had to admit,
she had it good: she didn’t need to work; she could travel on a whim
to Italy or France for a weekend getaway; and she didn’t have to
shovel snow for what had felt like six months out of the year back
home.
So what is my problem? Anne shook her head as she walked.
Well, if she were being honest, the problem was that while her
husband’s career was advancing, she had started to regret all she
had left behind. It’s true that back in Boston she had been unhappy
with her job as a pharmaceutical lab technician. Her career was
stagnating, and a bit boring. But now she realized that at 37, which
was very close to 40, she would have a hard time switching careers,
or even rebuilding her old career in a language she hardly spoke.
Anne had recently learned that there was a term for people like
her–people who gave up their jobs to follow their significant other to
Switzerland–a ‘trailing spouse’. Anne felt that nothing summed up
her current predicament with a more succinct brutality.
 Though none of this is Ben's fault, Anne thought. She felt guilty
having these negative feelings, while surrounded by so much beauty.
And the conflicting emotions were driving her crazy.
But this evening her thoughts were more pleasantly occupied.
This evening she had a plan. And she couldn’t wait to share it with
Ben.
She rounded a corner and came to a pastel two-storey house.
The pink stucco covered the thick rough stones that formed the
house’s walls and hid its age. The color made it blend with its more
modern neighbors, but the building’s small size and slate-tiled roof
hinted at its age–perhaps late medieval–to the careful observer. An
art gallery occupied the first floor, and her own apartment was on
the second.
Closing the heavy wooden street-level door, Anne ran up the
stairs to the apartment. Soft light greeted her as she entered. On
the inside, the apartment revealed more of its ancient provenance.
When they had moved in, she had instantly loved the apartment’s
whitewashed stone walls, the exposed dark wood beams, and open
plan layout. The generous windows knocked out into the thick stone
walls bathed the apartment in bright light all day. And a tiny balcony
that overlooked the lake–if she leaned forward and looked to the
left–completed the magic.
Ben, reading on his phone at the kitchen table, looked up. The
last rays of the golden hour made his hair even blonder, and Anne
marveled at how boyish he still looked at 40.
“Hi,” said Anne. And without waiting for a reply, because she
was excited to share this piece of information with her husband, she
continued, “You know that old bookstore I like?”
Ben nodded in response.
“Well, on the way to Italian class I saw a sign in the window
that they are looking for an assistant,” she said, waiting to see how
he would react.
“Okay,” he said, encouraging her to give him more details. “But
you don’t speak Italian,” he added.
The store in question was one Anne loved walking past. It was
just the type of store that piqued her interest. She loved to stop and
look through its windows after hours.
Although situated on the Old Town shopping street, the
bookstore was little noticed by visitors to Ascona. Its windows
displayed neither flashy art, as the art galleries, nor expensive
accessories, as the boutiques, so the eyes of tourists slid past its
windows to the sparkling displays of the jewelry store further down
the street.
But the bookstore’s windows were exactly what drew Anne’s
attention to it. Two gothic windows stood on each side of the store’s
entrance, each outlined in a dark wood frame that curved to a sharp
point at the top. To Anne, those gothic windows hinted at so much
mystery inside.
“Yes, but the ad is for an English-speaking assistant,” Anne
replied.
“They’ll still require you to speak Italian, I would think,” her
husband said. “And why do you want to work in a bookstore,
anyway? You’ve never worked in a bookstore.”
“I know, but I’ve always wanted to,” Anne said. “I still regret not
accepting a job at the library during college. I remember I had
already lined up another after-class job. But if I had taken that
library job instead, who knows how my life would have turned out. I
might have studied library science and become a librarian,” she said,
with a laugh. “You know I love books. And I can imagine that
working with books is a very rewarding way to spend time.”
“And what type of work?” her husband asked.
“It didn’t mention that," Anne said, trying to remember the note
on the store's door. "It just said apply within.” In her excitement,
Anne hadn’t considered what the job might actually be. “Anyway. I’m
going to go tomorrow morning and apply. At least it will give me a
reason to go inside the bookstore.” And with that, Anne twirled
happily around and went to get a book to read for the evening.
 2 An old bookstore
The aroma of Anne’s cappuccino enveloped her, and her
thoughts drifted to her fully automated Swiss coffee machine and
how much joy she got from hearing the crunch of grinding beans
and the hiss of frothing milk.
Anne knew good coffee. Thanks to her husband, a rising star in
the coffee industry, with a nose for quality beans and the know-how
for innovative roasting techniques, Anne always had access to the
best roasts. She hadn’t realized, until her husband applied for a job
here, that Switzerland was one of the largest exporters of roasted
coffee in the world, and that its citizens were some of the biggest
consumers of coffee in the world.
Anne sat on her balcony–the one that almost overlooked the
lake–sipping coffee. The fresh morning air carried a pleasant breeze
from the lake. It was still early, but Anne could feel that the strong
sun rays would make the day hot by lunchtime. She still had half an
hour before she could go to the bookstore at 9 o’clock and apply for
the English-speaking assistant’s position.
Since last night, for a reason even Anne couldn't put her finger
on, she had become fixated on getting the bookstore job. Maybe it
was a left-over wish of working in the library from her college days,
or maybe it was because she loved reading, or maybe it was
because she wanted to feel useful, but she woke up this morning
determined to get that job.
Almost everyone here spoke at least some English, in addition
to Italian, and German, and sometimes even French, which made
Anne feel quite inferior on the language front. But she had
confidence in her transferable skills–organizational, research, and
analytical–which she had developed during a Master’s Degree in
Biology, and a career in pharmaceutical research. All of which she
had made sure to mention in the CV–the Swiss version of a resume–
she had typed up last night.
And she loved books.
 I hope that would be enough, she thought.
Because, not only had she never worked in a bookstore before,
as her husband had pointed out, she had never worked in retail at
all. Her college jobs had revolved around lab work.

◆◆◆

Anne turned away from the lakeside promenade, with its bright
sunshine and constant flow of tourists, and walked towards the
tunnel-like alleyways that wound their way between houses. She
needed to be alone and gather her thoughts.
Her pulse quickened as she got closer to the bookstore. Stop
acting like a teenager, she laughed at herself. She was not some
young girl going to her first job interview. She was an almost-
middle-aged woman with a solid career behind her.
And yet, being in a new country where she didn’t speak the
language and where she had to rely on her husband for a lot of
things–he spoke excellent Italian thanks to his Italian grandmother–
made her feel infantile. But she knew her current state was only
temporary, and applying for that bookstore job was a step in the
right direction.
As she rounded the corner, she came out of the shaded
alleyway and into full view of the pedestrian shopping street, bathed
in sharp morning light. Anne had no problem locating the bookstore
amid the storefronts.
Her eyes locked on the gothic broodiness of its grey stone
facade, which stood in stark contrast to the brightly painted stores
on the street. A hipster girl on her phone breezed by Anne. English
conversation “– he said I wasn’t the right fit –” caught Anne’s
attention. She shook off the thought that had slipped into her mind.
It would be too much of a conscience if the girl had just been
rejected for the bookstore assistant’s job. Right?
Anne wondered what would make someone right for the job.
She hoped the bookstore job would be meted out based on
personality rather than experience.
 Even if she didn’t get the job, Anne looked forward to having an
opportunity, an excuse, really, to go into the bookstore. Though she
had walked past it so many times in the last months, she had never
dared go inside.
The bookstore was an antiquarian of Italian books. Books that
Anne assumed were way out of her Italian-language league. So she
had never ventured in.
If I lose my nerve to apply for the job, she thought, I could ask
for an Agatha Christie novel in Italian. And with that comforting plan,
she opened the store door.
The door in question was glass-paneled with a dark wood
frame–with a pointed arch in the middle–that matched the windows.
With a sinking feeling, Anne noticed the job notice from yesterday
was gone. Oh, no! How can the position be filled already, she
thought.
Her mind started spinning, and she was unsure of what to do.
But as her hand was already on the door, she pushed it open. Gentle
bells chimed above Anne’s head. Just like a normal bookstore, she
thought, nothing to be intimidated about.
Anne stood at the top of a short flight of stone steps leading
down into the store. As her eyes adjusted to the gloomy interior, her
breath caught. From the outside, Anne had found the store
immensely interesting, with its gothic facade and stoic disregard for
any sort of flourish that might attract tourists. Peeking inside, after
hours, she had seen that the store was a converted apothecary, with
the characteristic antique glass fronted cabinets still lining the walls.
The combination of old books and apothecary reminded Anne of
alchemy, and she wondered what other surprising things the store
might be hiding. Maybe part of the reason she had never gone in
before was that she didn’t want to spoil the fantasy she had
constructed in her mind.
But even if Anne had found the store interesting from the
outside, she was not prepared for the details displayed on the inside.
Past the stone steps lay a floor covered in tiny tiles, arranged in a
colorful geometric pattern. Dark wood counters framed the store on
three sides. Behind them, nested in smooth stone walls, were the
apothecary cabinets, which Anne had seen from the outside. Tall
glass doors enclosed thick antique books with faded cloth bindings
on the lower shelves, while the upper shelves were crammed with
an array of white ceramic jars in different sizes with ornately painted
labels. Each cabinet was framed with a twisting design of leaves,
vines, and flowers carved into the dark wood. And above the
cabinets, elegant stone ribs extended from the walls, traveled up in
a curve, and met at the center of the store to form a soaring vaulted
ceiling.
In the hushed interior, each of Anne’s steps reverberated as she
walked down into the store. It felt like walking into a cathedral.
As Anne descended the last step onto the tiled floor, a bang
echoed through the store. She gave a start. Her heart pounded at
the unexpected sound, and it took her a moment to realize that it
wasn’t her. The loud crash had come from a black cat as it jumped
up on the counter and knocked over a tall stack of books.
The cat stood on the counter, sitting next to the tipped pile of
books, examining Anne with an intense stare. Sitting behind the
counter, a man with frameless glasses and greying hair smiled up at
her.
“Ciao,” Anne said.
“Salve,” answered the man, using the more formal greeting
reserved for strangers. I should have used the same, Anne thought.
She hesitated, but decided there was nothing to be shy about.
“I’m here to apply for the English-speaking assistant position,”
Anne said, uncertain if she should speak in Italian instead. “Is it still
available?”
“Yes, just,” said the man from behind the counter. What does
that mean, Anne wondered.
“I’m Marco. Welcome to my store.” Marco didn’t move or get up
and kept his hands on top of the counter. “So you are interested in
the assistant position?” he asked. Anne noticed his English was
excellent, though accented with an Italian annunciation.
“Yes, I brought my CV,” she said as she stepped closer and
handed the printed pages to him.
 “I’m not interested in that,” Marco dismissed them gently with
his hand. “We’ll just have a chat about the project, you’ll tell me a
bit about yourself, and we’ll see how we get along.”
He removed his hands from the counter and dropped them by
his side. As he did, he started gliding backward. The movement
surprised Anne, but she realized he was in a wheelchair. Marco spun
the wheelchair to the side and started making his way around the
counter. The black cat leapt off the counter into his lap.
He extended a hand towards Anne, “Nice to meet you,” and
invited her further into the store. “Okay, let’s jump right into it,” he
said. “This is an antiquarian, and we buy and sell old books, and we
sometimes also buy old maps, and documents, and archives from
when people die –”
“From estate sales,” Anne suggested.
“That’s right,” he said. He eased the cat off his lap and revealed
a small brown leather book. He wheeled toward the counter and
opened the book. Anne followed him. He continued, “The project I’m
hiring for involves this diary, and its companions. It belonged to a
woman, Cecilia Holbourn, who established an art colony in the area
in the 1900s. On the Isola Caresio,” he pointed toward the lake. “Do
you know it?”
Anne shook her head “No, not really. I’ve been to the botanical
gardens on Brissago Islands, but know little about other islands.”
“Ah, well, it’s right behind the Brissago Islands, but difficult to
see from here,” he answered as he leaned over the pages of the
diary. Anne looked at him more closely. Marco wore a thick cardigan
despite the warm weather. And his haircut was like an army buzz
cut, different from the longer hair–Anne had observed–men here
preferred.
“The art colony has been on the island since the 1900s,”, he
said, bringing her attention back to the diary, “and in its heyday was
quite popular with artists, philosophers, writers, and other
luminaries. While it started off as a bohemian enclave, it turned into
a strict vegetarian and nudist colony by the 1930s, with strong
anarchist and bolshevik views”, he continued as he leafed through
the pages of the diary, “and then disintegrated into drugs and
hedonism in the 1960s. By the 1980s, the current owner, a
descendent of the art colony’s founder, decided”–he closed the diary
with a snap–“to close it down.” He turned to look at Anne, “There
were too many accidents involving wild parties, drugs, and alcohol.
And there was probably some pressure from the town as well for the
art colony to clean up its act or to close. When the art colony closed,
the family decided to dispose of some of the archives. And since I
collect documents of local history, I bought them.”
The history of the island intrigued Anne, and she made a mental
note to look up the island online when she got home.
“But now the art colony is being revived,” Marco continued. “I
think they are planning to turn it into a convention center and run it
for profit. They have people on the island now to start restoration of
the house. And I hear they also have some artists visiting already.”
Maco turned towards the pile of books the cat had knocked
over.
“Where we come in,” he said, putting a hand on top of the pile,
“is that the woman in charge of this venture wanted to buy the
diaries back and display them at the house as a sort of museum, to
recall the history of the art colony and its beginnings.”
Anne’s stomach had made a little jump at the “we”, and she
wondered if it was significant. Was that ‘we’ as in Marco and other
employees of the store, or ‘we’ as in Marco and me, she thought.
“I sold the diaries back to them, of course,” Marco continued,
“but we agreed I can keep them for a while to digitize them. I think
these are interesting little documents of local history, and I want to
keep copies of them. So the position I’m interested in filling is to
digitize the diaries and index any references to well-known people
from the time of the diaries.” Marco turned with a smile towards
Anne and looked her straight in the eyes, “How is your Italian and
Swiss history?”
The question threw her off. Well, they are non-existent, she
thought. She caught a hint of mischief in his eyes and relaxed a bit.
Seeing this as an opportunity to speak, Anne plunged right into the
list of qualities and qualifications she had prepared for the interview.
 “I don’t know much about local history, but I’m willing to learn.
I’m a quick learner. I love books and reading. And I think I would be
perfect for this project. I’m organized, and I used to work as a
researcher, so I’m good with summarizing data and finding patterns,
and working on my own. I’m self-directed and self-motivated,” she
paused a little to go over her mental list and see if she missed
anything.
She knew she probably looked like an eager student trying to
please a teacher. Ugh, what is it about this job that is getting me so
worked up? Anne thought. Pull yourself together, she told herself.
“Good, good. That’s good,” he said. “Do you live in the area?”
“Yes, I live just a few streets away. Above the Bellina Gallery,
near the promenade.” Anne hoped living in town would give her
some brownie points.
“Good,” the man said again. “I’ll see you tomorrow and we can
complete the paperwork.”
“So is that it?” she asked, unsure if the interview was done.
“That’s it,” he said. “Come at 9.” The black cat jumped back in
his lap as he pulled away from Anne, and swerved to go back behind
the counter.
Anne left the store a bit confused. She seemed to have got the
job. But she was not sure why. Marco hadn’t asked many questions.
She guessed he was going off personality, just like she had hoped.
And the project itself is not that complicated, she thought. I can
handle it.
Before joining the flow of tourists towards the promenade, she
turned to look at the store. Funny, she had never noticed the name
before. Mostly she didn’t look at store names, because she couldn’t
translate them for herself. On a sign above the store she read “Fuori
Stampa”. ‘Fuori’-outside and ‘stampa’-printing, she overtaxed her
Italian knowledge. She couldn’t make sense of it. She’d have to ask
her husband.
As she walked home along the sun-dappled promenade,
weaving among tourists, she got more and more excited about the
job. It sounded like work that she would find interesting. It ticked so
many of her ideal-job boxes–it involved books, and research, and
analysis, and distilling information...
A happy jolt did a somersault in her stomach. She almost
bounced as she turned the corner toward home.
 3 The unwelcome customer
The bells over the front door chimed. A customer, thought
Anne. Sitting in her office, a small room to the side of the
bookstore’s storage area, she scanned a page from the diaries.
In her first three days at the store, Anne had not had to serve a
customer, yet. Because of her non-existent conversational Italian,
Marco had taken care of that. Not that there were many customers.
‘Out of Print’, as Anne now knew the store was called, truly lived up
to its name. Almost all the bookstore’s business came through email
enquiries from academics and researchers about old books and
historical documents.
The slow pace of life in the store suited Anne. She discovered
that Marco was the only other employee and that he was as quiet as
she was. And, having never liked small talk at the office, she
considered it a plus.
Anne was used to working on her own, from her lab days. She
didn’t mind spending long stretches of the day alone, digitizing the
diaries. The rhythm of her work was relaxing and almost meditative,
as she pressed each page to the scanner and waited for the digital
copy to appear on her screen.
“Scusi!” A man’s voice bellowed.
Anne jumped. She had forgotten about the customer. I guess
Marco didn’t hear the customer come in, Anne thought. She put
down the diary and went to see if she could help.
The silhouette of a tall man with a hat stood out against the
store windows. He was pacing across from one side counter to the
other, flicking a pair of gloves in his hands.
“Buongiorno,” Anne said as she stepped behind the counter.
The man turned, and she saw him more clearly. He wore a
straw Panama hat arranged to one side for artistic flourish, a navy
blue linen sport coat, and a long white scarf wrapped once around
his neck. Silk, probably, Anne thought, given the entire ensemble. It
reminded her of a caricature of an artist from a Poirot episode.
 The man started speaking in rapid Italian.
Anne froze. She had no idea what he was saying. She knew any
normal customer would expect a bookstore assistant to speak
Italian, so she forced herself to interrupt him before he got any
further.
“I’m sorry, I don’t speak Italian,” she said. The man stopped
with an incredulous expression on his face. Anne thought she saw
him roll his eyes under the brim of his hat.
“Are the diaries ready?” he switched to a measured, accented
English, twirling the pair of light leather gloves in his hand to
underlie his impatience at having to repeat himself.
Anne’s confusion must have appeared on her face because the
man continued with an irritated sigh. “The diaries of the
grandmother from the art colony,” he waved his gloves in the
direction of the lake. While he was the same height as Anne, he still
managed to hold his head in such a way as to be talking down to
her.
“I’m sorry, but I don’t know who you are. I can’t give that
information away.” Anne felt protective of the diaries and the man
was making her bristle.
“I’ve come from the Caresio island,” he said, slowly, the way one
would speak to a child. “I’m from the art colony. I’m the painter
Paolo Duratti.” He delivered all this with a hint of boredom, as if
Anne should have known all this information.
Well, at least the artist part explains the outfit, Anne thought.
“The diaries are not finished yet. I haven’t finished scanning all
of them. It was my understanding that there was no rush on the
project,” Anne said.
“Well, when are you going to be done?” he demanded. A twirl of
his gloves emphasized his question.
“There are still quite a lot of pages to be scanned and indexed,”
Anne explained. She waited to see what he would say, because she
wasn’t exactly sure what the man wanted with the diaries, and what
he hoped to accomplish with his visit.
“Can I see them? I’m looking for some information,” he said,
switching to a more pleasant tone.
 “I’m not sure I can let you see them,” Anne said. She wasn’t
sure if she was supposed to show them. I wish Marco were here,
she thought.
“Elaine, the director from the art colony, knows I’m here,” the
man pressed on. “You could say I’m here at her bidding. I’m just
looking for some information and I can’t wait. Who knows how long
it would take you to finish with the diaries.” He paused for a
moment. “Here. I’ll stand right here and you can watch me leaf
through them, right here. Is that good for you?”
Where is Marco, Anne thought, a little irritated this time. Anne
excused herself and went to the back to look for him.
The chapel-like feel of the front of the store belied the modern
efficiency of the storage area in the back. Tall metal racks filled the
space. Books, rolled up maps, and flat rectangular boxes filled with
old documents and archives lined the shelves, stacked only as high
as Marco’s reach. Marco’s office was to the side of the stacks. He
wasn’t in it.
Beyond the stacks was an area that looked disused. Metal stairs
led to a second-floor gallery–also lined with book stacks–but that
area was always dark, and Anne had not had a reason to explore it.
A fireproof door beneath the gallery's balcony led to what Marco had
explained was a climate controlled area for the oldest items in the
store's inventory. Marco used a door to the side of the metal
staircase to enter and exit the store.
She called out his name and looked for him among the stacks.
But Marco was nowhere to be found. He must have gone out for a
bit, Anne thought.
Anne didn’t want to be away from the front too long, because
she wouldn’t put it past the pushy artist to go behind the counter
and start looking for the diaries himself.
She walked back to the front. Maggie, the store’s black cat, was
pacing in front of the closed office door to Anne’s office. That’s
strange, Anne thought. I left it open. She pressed on the handle, but
the door did not open. She pushed her weight against it, thinking it
was stuck, but it would not move. Worried that the artist had gone
into her office, taken the diaries, and somehow locked the door,
Anne ran to the front of the store.
But she found the artist still there, and more agitated than
before.
“Well, can I see the diaries?” he shot out.
“I’m sorry,” Anne said, and mentally kicked herself for
apologizing. “I cannot find the store owner, and the door to the
office with the diaries is locked.”
“Dio!” He exclaimed, clearly not believing her. He let out a few
curse words in Italian. Said, what sounded like, “I guess I have to
wait for some incompetent girl to finish,” under his breath, but loud
enough for Anne to hear, and left the store with a huff. Anne could
see him walking across the store windows, in the direction of the
lake, his ridiculous white scarf flapping behind him.
“What happened?” Marco asked behind Anne.
She spun around, a hand on her chest. “Oh, you scared me,”
she said. “I didn’t expect you.”
Anne told Marco about the man. “I decided not to show him the
diaries, mainly because he was rude, but also because I wasn’t sure
he had the right to see them,” she said.
“You’re probably right. He’ll get to see them soon enough, if the
art colony director lets him,” Marco said. He shrugged, as if to
dismiss the whole incident.
“And it was so strange,” Anne continued, "but my door was
stuck. I didn’t lock it, but I couldn’t budge it open.”
Marco turned around and wheeled down the corridor towards
her office door. He pressed the handle and with a slight push the
door swung open in a smooth arc.
“How can that be? It was so stuck!” Anne said. Was Marco
playing a trick on her? Had he locked the door and unlocked it again
before coming to the front for some reason? So strange, Anne
thought.
“The store is old,” Marco called out over his shoulder as he
rolled away towards his office.
 4 A death in the newspaper
The calm waters of the lake sparkled gently in the morning
sunlight. Along the promenade, as she made her way to the store,
coffee in hand, Anne observed tourists and locals taking their place
at the lake-side cafes for a day of leisure. Heavy-around-the-middle
men in bright polo shirts hid behind large newspapers. Their young
wives hid behind oversized sunglasses and sipped tiny coffees.
Single ladies of retirement age, with coiffures hair-sprayed against
the lake breeze, strode up and down the promenade behind small
dogs.
Anne looked ahead. From far away, the bookstore reminded her
of an unhappy old man among all the other cheerful stores. A
grumpy man who randomly locks doors, she thought. She turned her
eyes towards the lake, yesterday’s unpleasant visit fresh in her mind.
The art colony island was not visible from here, hidden behind
Brissago Islands.
Why was the artist so insistent on seeing the diaries? What is
inside them that he can’t wait? Anne wondered.
After Paolo Duratti’s visit, she had looked more closely through
the text to see if some event jumped out at her. The diaries were
interesting, but she couldn’t find any information that would make
an artist so desperate to see them. They contained nothing more
than short snippets of Cicilia’s daily life: her garden; her children;
visitors to the art colony; descriptions of parties. Anne found those
glimpses of life in the 1900s enchanting. The daily entries tugged on
her imagination and transported her back in time. She imagined
daily life on the island as pleasant, unhurried, and always drenched
in sunshine. Ladies in long white frocks, lace parasols, hats held on
with big pale blue bows, sitting in swaying meadows for impromptu
afternoon picnics. Like a Monet painting. While the diaries were
entertaining, they revealed nothing earth-shattering, as far as Anne
could tell.
 Anne passed a newsstand. A picture above the fold of the local
newspaper caught her attention. It was the artist who had visited
the store yesterday. She looked at the headline, but couldn’t
translate it. Hoping Marco would translate it for her, she bought a
copy. She could also use the app on her phone, the one that
translated text from pictures. What did people do before translation
apps, Anne wondered. They learned the language quicker, she
answered herself. She suspected that the ease of translating text
with her phone was hindering her progress with Italian.
She tried to make out the words in the headline, but couldn’t
piece them together. Whatever it was, it was something important.
When Anne got to the store, Marco was already behind the
counter. She flagged up the newspaper as she walked down the
steps from the door.
“Look what I saw on my way here,” Anne said, “but I can’t
make out all of it. It’s something to do with the artist that came in
yesterday.” She spread the newspaper on the counter.
Marco glanced at it. “I’ve seen it,” he said. Anne noticed a
folded copy of the same newspaper by his elbow. After passing his
eyes once more over the article, he continued, “There was a boating
accident at the art colony last night and the artist, Paolo Duratti,
drowned. It seems like the artists staying at the art colony had a
party that involved a lot of wine and champagne.” Marco shook his
head.
“That’s awful.” Anne said. Her husband had mentioned last
summer, when Anne wanted to take up paddleboarding on the lake,
that people underestimated the tranquil waters of Lago Maggiore
and its depth, and many drown in accidents on the lake every year.
Anne leaned over the newspaper, “Does the article say anything
else?” There was a photo of the artists, but also a photo of the art
colony villa. Even from the grainy print of the black-and-white photo,
Anne could see that it was an exquisite example of a Belle Epoque
villa. Graceful white columns and elegant tall windows decorated the
facade. She had seen other villas like it around the lake, and on lake
Como in Italy, but most of those were now museums. I can’t believe
there are still families who can afford to own an entire island and
support the upkeep of such villas, Anne thought.
“Not much,” answered Marco. “Just a little about the history of
the Isola Caresio and the art colony,” he said. “It is a strange little
place,” he continued after some thought. “The art colony had always
been accompanied by an outsized number of accidents. I guess that
can be attributed to the fast and reckless lifestyle of the rich and
idle. Lots of parties and lots of drinking. That doesn’t mix well with
proximity to a lake, and boating under the influence is never a good
idea.” Marco said, sounding reproachful.
“What is this word?” Anne pointed to one word in the title,
printed big. “La maledizione”, she read in her halting Italian.
“The curse. ‘The curse has returned’,” Marco translated.
“What curse?” Anne asked, her curiosity piqued.
Marco shook his head, “The history of the island goes way back,
to before the art colony and its beautiful villa. Its beginnings are
much darker.”
Anne hoped he would continue without being prompted.
“The legend of the curse is well known around here. I’m
surprised you haven’t heard of it?” Marco said.
Too caught up in the promise of an interesting story to speak,
Anne just shook her head.
Marco obliged. “Back in the 1400s, the lands all around here
passed back and forth between Milanese princes and the fledgling
Swiss federation. It was a constant battle between Italian princes
and their grand families, which included bishops or even popes, and
the republic of Swiss cantons. Isola Caresio was the Bishop of Milan’s
last stronghold in the area. There was a bitter battle on the island
which led to his defeat; he had lost a lot of land in the process. The
Bishop ordered his retreating army to burn everything to the ground,
and cursed the island, any new building on it, and any people who
tried to set foot on it. The only thing left was an old church and its
tower. Left as a reminder of the curse. For a long time, it was the
only building on the island.
“The island passed back and forth between Italian princes and
the Swiss federation a few more times and finally settled into the
possession of a family from the Italian nobility, descendents of the
Bishop of Milan, but on the territory of Switzerland. In the late
1880s, the family built a villa as a summer retreat, which later
became the art colony. The church is still there,” Marco pointed to
the photo of the villa. Anne looked closer and saw a dark tower,
similar to the one in Ascona, among the tall trees behind the house.
It seemed so out of place. “The local people here have blamed the
curse for the accidents over the years at the art colony,” he added.
Anne’s brow creased, “But if the island belongs to the
descendants of Italian princes, why are the diaries written in
English?”
“Oh, like most aristocratic families, they were quite international
in their bloodline, marrying suitably aristocratic partners from all
over Europe. By the time the villa was built, and the diaries were
written, the family, through marriages, had become quintessentially
English.”
The bells above the door announced a visitor and broke the
spell of the island’s story. Anne wanted to learn more, but she knew
she had to get on with her work and walked to her office to start her
day of digitizing.
She looked at the stack on her desk with a renewed interest.
The curse added a new lens through which to read the diaries. Anne
didn’t believe in curses and thought they were just self-fulfilling
prophecies of words taken too literally. She agreed with Marco that
the accidents were probably due to the fast and reckless lifestyle of
the rich. After all, how many rich and famous people die each year
skiing, or flying their own planes, or doing some other extreme sport
or activity. It has probably been like that for centuries. Only the
vehicles and modes of thrill-seeking have changed. Not human
nature, Anne thought.
 5 A trip to Isola Caresio
“Done!” Anne stretched her back and rolled her shoulders. She
had finished scanning all the diaries.
Scanning hadn’t taken long. And even with the time she spent
reading–and looking for clues as to why an artist would be so
desperate to get his hands on what were essentially the diaries of an
early 20th century housewife–Anne still had progressed through
them with efficiency.
She gathered the leather-bound notebooks and carried them to
the front of the store where Marco was hunched over a book.
“That’s the last one,” she announced. “I’ll continue indexing
them, but these can go to the island,” she placed the stack on the
counter. “Is there mail delivery to the island?” Anne asked.
Ever since her encounter with the artist, his inexplicable interest
in the diaries, and his subsequent accident and death, Anne was
curious about the art colony and its current residents. She wondered
if anyone from the island would stop by the store to pick up the
diaries.
“I’ll phone them and see what they want to arrange,” Marco
said, rolling towards the phone on the wall. Anne remembered being
surprised that the store still had a working landline.
While Marco was on the phone, Anne stepped out to get fresh
air. After spending so much time in the windowless office, she
welcomed the warm rays of the sun on her face. Need to go for a
long walk on the weekend, she told herself.
She looked towards the lake, and her glance skimmed over the
water in the direction of the island. Anne wondered what life was
like on the art colony island now. She wanted to see the island up
close. She knew it was private and therefore inaccessible to visitors
without an invitation, but she decided that maybe her husband could
rent a boat and they could sail by it one day.
Anne stepped back in. Marco greeted her with the news that
they were invited to deliver the diaries to the island themselves. “Do
you want to go for a boat ride?” Marco asked. “We can go during
lunch.”
Ascona, like the rest of Southern Switzerland, and the whole of
Italy, resolutely hung on to the tradition of a long lunch break. Anne
loved that people went home for an hour, or an hour and a half, and
had lunch with family.
“How will we get there?” Anne asked.
“We’ll take my boat.” Marco answered. Anne didn’t want to say
it out loud, but she wondered how a person in a wheelchair could go
on a boat, and operate a boat. Her hesitance must have shown
because a mischievous smile spread across Marco’s face and he
added, “I have a specially designed boat. You’ll see. I have it
docked at the Old Port.”
Anne had walked by the Old Port many times on her excursions
through Ascona. ‘Port’ was a rather grand name for the rectangular
pool of water enclosed by a low stone wall with boats moored inside.
One wall had a narrow opening towards the lake so that boats could
pass in and out. Unlike the more modern docks of Ascona–set in a
prime location along the center of the promenade–from which
tourist boats ferried visitors to other picturesque towns along the
lake, and to Italy, the Old Port was tucked out of the way to the side
of the promenade.
Anne locked the front door, and they left the store through the
back. A paved lane behind the building sloped gently to the lake.
Marco pointed out a modern white boat as his. Anne placed the box
of diaries she was carrying into the boat and then got into the
swaying vessel herself. Under Marco’s instructions, she found the
button to lower a platform on the back of the boat so that it was
flush with the dock, and Marco wheeled on. Anne noticed he
operated the boat with the practiced movements of an experienced
boatman.
Marco guided the boat through the narrow opening in the stone
wall at a low speed and picked up speed when they got to open
water. Little splashes and bumps measured out the boat’s progress
across the lake in a rhythmic succession. A clear blue horizon
opened up ahead of them. The breeze off the lake cooled down the
sun’s strong rays on Anne’s face. She tried to tame the hair swirling
wildly around her head, while she held the side of the boat for
balance.
They rounded the two Brissago Islands–the larger, botanical
gardens one, with its manicured exotic flora, and a smaller
companion island, which, unlike the botanical park, was left to grow
wild and untamed. Finally, the art colony island came into view.
Anne’s heart sped up. She looked forward to seeing the real thing
after having spent so much time reading about it.
As they neared the island, a bell tower, much like the one in
Ascona, rose out of the background of the island. The dark tower
hunched menacingly over the pretty exuberance of a white villa. The
contrast was striking. It reminded Anne of a pretty maiden trapped
in the clutches of an ogre. A shiver ran down her spine. She had
completely forgotten about the curse.
Anne had looked up the island’s history online. Standing before
her were the last remains of the vast fortune of the Trincini–now
Fitzroy–family, that over the centuries fate and world events had
whisked away.
Marco slowed down the boat. He aligned it parallel with the
middle of three docks jutting out from the island. The boat came to
a stop with a light bump against the wooden planks.
Anne looked up, trying to focus on the details of the white
palazzo. It was more beautiful and delicate than Anne had
envisioned. The rectangular shape reminded her of a gilded jewelry
box. A carved stone balustrade framed the flat roof, classic columns
decorated the facade, and wrought-iron balconies adorned each of
its many tall windows.
A tall woman, in sensible khakis and a white shirt with rolled-up
sleeves, was waiting on the dock.
“Welcome,” she said, with a wide smile showing off her perfect
teeth.
“Hello,” Marco answered. Marco turned towards Anne, “Anne,
this is Elaine Mayer, the director of the art colony. She’s the one who
initiated the purchase of the diaries.” Turning to Elaine, he said,
“Anne has been working on digitizing and indexing the diaries.”
 “A pleasure to meet you,” said Elaine. She walked to the boat
and offered to take the box of diaries. “Marco, would the two of you
like to come ashore and visit the island? We are having a little
impromptu lunch outside with some drinks,” she tipped her head
towards the house, cradling the cardboard box against her body.
“You can reach the top of the hill using that ramp on the side that
the construction workers are using,” she indicated a smooth dirt path
sloping in a curve up from the right side of the docks. She spoke
English with a predominantly British accent, but her speech was also
laced with a pan-European accent Anne had become accustomed to
in Switzerland, but which was hard to place.
A jolt of excitement passed through Anne, but she waited to see
what Marco would say.
Marco shook his head, “No, thank you for the invitation, but I
have to go back to the store and I was planning on having lunch
with my wife.” Disappointment washed over Anne–to have come so
close to the island and not see it. “But maybe Anne would like to
stay,” Marco said, turning to Anne.
“I’d love to,” Anne said, a little too loudly. She tried moderating
her excitement. “It’s such a beautiful place. And after reading
through the diaries, I would love to see the island, and the house, in
person.” A thought crossed her mind–she couldn’t ask Marco to
come back and get her. “Only, how will I get back to Ascona?” she
asked.
“We’ll think of something,” said Elaine, and paused for a
moment. “We have the grocer’s boat coming later in the afternoon.
I’m sure he can take you back to the mainland.”
Anne clambered off the boat and waved to Marco as he drove
off. She reached in the back pocket of her jeans for an elastic,
combed her fingers through her messy hair, and put her hair in a
ponytail. Anne noticed the red and white police tape around the
dock to the left. “My condolences,” she said to Elaine.
“It’s a terrible tragedy,” Elaine said, following Anne’s glance. “We
all had quite a bit to drink that night. Paolo must have gone down to
the dock for some reason and tried to go to the shore,” Elaine
pointed with her head to Ascona. “Goodness knows why, in the
middle of the night. The police said he must have slipped or lost his
balance trying to get on the boat, and hit his head, and then
drowned,” she was quiet for a moment. “No one heard anything, of
course, or we would have tried to help. All the bedrooms we are
currently using face the other way, and these shrubs,” she swept her
head, “hide much of the dock from view from the house. Poor
Paolo.” Elaine shook her head and continued walking ahead.
At the end of the dock they turned left and took white stone
steps up the hill towards the house. Luscious greenery lined their
way. Heavy purple clusters of wisteria blossoms hung over the path,
the strong trunks twisting and crawling up the hill. The steps were
worn in places and cracks in the stone had given way to weeds and
grass. But Anne could see through their age and appreciated their
elegance. She imagined the generations of joyful people–excited by
the prospect of a summer spent on the lake–that had walked up
these stairs from the dock to the house.
A stillness enveloped the island. The warm air was filled with
the buzz of insects. Somewhere far away on the lake a motorboat
purred. The leaves overhead rustled in the gentle breeze. A
bumblebee flew low and slow from flower to flower on a purple
bush.
“What a great idea to reopen the art colony,” Anne said. “I can
see how relaxing and inspiring this place must be to artists and even
writers. Will the place be open to writers?” she turned to Elaine.
“At the moment it’s only open to some artists, friends of the
current owner, Barbara Fitzroy,” Elaine answered. “But after the
necessary repairs to the building have been completed, and a full
business plan is drawn up, to make the art colony financially self-
sufficient, we will open it up to the public,” she said. “We’re aiming
to have it ready by next summer.”
“Looks like an enchanting place to work,” said Anne.
“Yes, I’m very lucky to have secured this position,” said Elaine.
They had reached the top of the steps, “Come, let me show you the
house,” she led the way towards the white building.
White gravel crunched under Anne’s feet; a broad gravel path
encircled the house. “This place must have been overgrown like a
jungle when you first got here,” Anne said, observing the wild mix of
trees and bushes on every side of the house.
Elaine looked around, as if taking stock of the greenery
surrounding them. “Oh, it wasn’t so bad. We haven’t actually done
much to the gardens since we arrived. We’ve been focusing on
getting the house back to working order,” she said. “Even after the
last art colony closed in the 80s, there has always been someone
living on the island and taking care of it. You probably noticed the
bell tower?” Elaine indicated the stone tower beyond the trees.
“There has always been a priest at the church on the island. Ever
since the church was built in the Middle Ages. I think the bell tower
dates from the 1100s. There were other buildings on the island, but
those were destroyed during battles. One day we’ll get
archaeologists to come excavate. Settlement here probably dates
back to Roman time,” Elaine said, and continued toward the house.
Three pairs of French doors lined the side of the house. The
middle doors were open and they walked through them into a wide
hall. The hall stretched the whole length of the house, with a
sweeping white staircase in the center. Outside the weather was
getting hot in the sharp midday sun, but inside the house was cool,
even chilly.
Anne glanced around, taking in as much detail as she could.
“It’s absolutely breathtaking,” she said. It reminded her of the grand
Italian palazzos she had visited on lake Como in Italy. But those
were museums; she couldn’t believe someone actually owned this.
Her gaze fell on a group of paintings hanging on a wall to the
side. “May I?” Anne asked, indicating the paintings, and walked over
to take a closer look while Elaine went to put away the diaries.
“Being an art colony, the whole place used to be covered with
paintings from various periods and various visitors,” Elaine said
walking back towards Anne. “We’ve left most of them in storage for
now, but took out a few painted by the family.”
Anne examined each painting. There were two very nice
portraits, a group of landscapes, and a few decidedly modern
paintings. One small painting in particular caught her attention. It
showed a young girl in a white dress, in a field of tall wildflowers.
Anne knew enough about art to appreciate the artist’s confident
brushstrokes and handling of light. It reminded her of an
impressionist painting. 1911, she read the date on the painting, too
late for impressionism. And no signature, she observed.
“All of these were painted here at the art colony,” Elaine said.
“That’s a really nice one,” Anne pointed to the one with the girl.
“Yes, that’s a really nice one. It’s painted by Cecilia–Cece for
short–whose diaries you’ve been working on. She’s Barbara’s great-
grandmother. And the girl in the painting is Lily, Cece’s daughter,
Barbara’s grandmother,” Elaine explained. “Pitty, judging by this, she
could have been a great artist, but didn’t produce much beyond this
painting. Her husband, John Holbourn, was somewhat well known at
the time, but is now mostly forgotten,” Elaine said, examining the
painting. “This here,” she said, pointing to one of the portraits, “is
actually a portrait of Cece done at about the same time. She was in
her mid-twenties here, from what Barbara said.”
Anne looked over to the portrait with a renewed interest. She
was excited to put a face to the diaries. Looking back at her was an
attractive young woman with chestnut hair swept up in a voluminous
pompadour, and a high white lace neck. The artist had captured a
merriment in her clear blue eyes.
“Anyway, we’ll have to go through all the pictures in storage and
see what we have,” Elaine said, looking at the paintings. “Let’s join
the others in the garden,” she said after a few moments, and started
walking towards the back of the house. Anne noticed the rectangular
silhouettes of the absent paintings all along the walls of the hall.
 6 A garden party
They walked through another set of open doors into a courtyard
on the side of the house. Surrounded by a low balustrade wall, and
lined with the same white gravel, the courtyard formed a terrace
overlooking the lake. This place just keeps getting better, Anne
marveled at the enchanted life of those who had lived here.
“This courtyard gets too hot in the middle of the day,” Elaine
said. “We’ve set up camp in a wilder bit of the island, with more
shade.” They walked out of the courtyard and up a path along the
edge of a small forest. Anne appreciated the cool shade of the trees,
as the sun really was warm by now. The path led them past a high
stone wall.
“What’s this?” Anne asked, indicating the wall.
“Oh, it’s a walled garden,” answered Elaine. “Quite charming.
Complete with a thick wood door that locks and everything. It’s like
a secret garden, like in the kids’ book,” she smiled. “They really did
not spare any expense when they were building this villa,” Elaine
said, echoing Anne’s thoughts.
“We do yoga in here in the evenings sometimes,” Elaine patted
the large gray stones. “We leave our cell phones in the house and
light a few candles. It’s a magical experience,” she said. “Sometimes
we do naked yoga,” her clear laughter bounced off the stone. “You
should join us one evening. It’s quite decadent,” Elaine said, and
smiled at Anne. Anne felt her cheeks burning, just smiled back, and
continued walking.
Anne heard conversation punctuated with laughter in the
distance. They walked into a clearing on the back of the walled
garden. Among the tall grass, wildflowers bloomed in yellow, purple,
and white. It reminded Anne of the painting inside the house. The
breeze carried a delicate smell of warm grass.
A group of people lounged on lawn chairs, some in the sun, and
some under the dappled shade provided by young spring leaves. A
small table was laid with various plates, opened bottles of wine, and
even a bottle of champagne. Like a Renoir painting, just more
upscale, thought Anne.
“Everyone,” Elaine said, her voice raised, “this is Anne from the
bookstore. She came to deliver Cece’s diaries.” Elaine led Anne
towards the others. “I’ve invited her to stay and join our little party
for lunch.” They stopped in front of the group. “Let me see,” she
said, looking round. “This is Nick. A terribly good painter. Don’t let
him convince you to paint you naked. Scandalous,” Elaine said with a
flirty note in her voice. She’s clearly hoping to be invited to do just
that, Anne thought.
Nick tipped back a straw hat, smiled in Anne’s direction, and
lowered the hat back over his eyes. He lay comfortably in his lawn
chair in full sun, a pale blue linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up,
khakis rolled up at the ankle, and suede loafers worn without socks.
In the habit of Italians, Anne noticed. The whole ensemble radiated
nonchalant elegance. Anne could appreciate why Elaine might hope
to be painted by Nick.
“If I didn’t know better,” a bell-like voice rang out, “I would
think Daniel is the one painting a nude woman in his room.” Anne
turned to the voice and saw a woman sitting in a contorted pose in
one of the lounge chairs–a pose more suited for a glamor shot. The
woman wore a short dress with spaghetti straps that showed off her
slim legs. Smooth black hair, flipped to one side, cascaded down her
tanned shoulders. “He’s been so mysterious lately,” the woman
continued, “always locking himself up to paint. What are you
working on so secretly, Daniel?” she turned to the man sitting next
to her.
“Then we have Daniel and Poppy,” Elaine’s gaze traveled to the
two people sitting under the shade of an old tree. “Daniel is also an
artist, but more interested in painting what is selling than a true
artist should be,” Elaine said, laughing. “Although he is rather
marvelous at painting like the old masters.”
Daniel smiled a broad, good-natured smile, and pushed his hand
through his dark wavy hair. “Elaine, you’ll give our guest the wrong
impression about me,” he said in a voice thick like honey. He would
make a great voice actor, Anne thought.
 His voice certainly had an effect on the woman sitting next to
him, who looked at him with the longing of someone who hoped to
be noticed. “But I do think art is like any other profession. I’m good
at what I do, I socialize with the right people, and I make good
money selling my paintings to them,” Daniel said, without a trace of
defense in his voice.
“It helps to have an art dealer for a girlfriend,” Nick spoke up
from under his hat. He sat up in his chair, pushed back his hat, and
turned to Daniel. “Where is dear Julia, anyway? I thought she would
be here.”
Daniel shrugged. “She got an urgent call to fly to Hong Kong for
a valuation,” he said. The woman sitting next to him readjusted in
her chaise lounge, and Anne thought the sparkle in her smile
dimmed a little at the mention of this Julia.
“And that’s Poppy,” Elaine said, pointing to the sulking woman
next to Daniel.
“Penelope,” the woman corrected her, and sighed, annoyed.
Anne wasn’t sure if that was due to being called Poppy or due to
Daniel’s girlfriend being mentioned.
“Penelope,” Elaine stressed the name, “is a psychology professor
and a successful author of controversial biographies of psychology
luminaries. Her book on Freud caused quite a stir, and now she has
her sights set on Carl Jung,” Elaine added. There was a note in her
voice which was either admiration or jealousy, Anne couldn’t decide.
“And last–”
“As always,” interjected a thin woman with delicate features.
Dressed all in black despite the strong sun, she was sitting a bit off
to the side of everyone else.
“–but not least,” Elaine continued, irritated by the interruption,
“is Maud, an installation artist. She creates light scapes and large
scale outdoor installations in remote and inaccessible places.” Elaine
explained. “Terribly clever,” she added, but in a tone that didn’t
sound like a compliment to Anne.
“Nice to meet you,” Maud said.
Anne thought the introductions were strained. Clearly these
people shared a lot of history together, but she felt uneasy in their
company, as if she’d walked into the middle of a family argument.
“Nice to meet you all.” Anne said to the group.
Elaine and Anne unfolded two lounge chairs and joined the
semi-circle on the meadow. Still curious how this group of people,
who didn’t seem to like each other much, got to be here, Anne
leaned forward in her chaise lounge and spoke to no one in
particular, “How do you all know each other?”
“All our families know each other,” Elaine said. “And we all run in
the same social circles in London and New York. My parents are
friends of Barbara’s and we holidayed together in the Caribbean
when I was a kid. Poppy, Maud and I were in a Swiss boarding
school together, and then visited each other during school holidays.
Nick went to university with Barbara’s son, James. And Daniel is
Barbara’s family, of course,” Elaine rattled off the tangled web of
relationships. Anne gave up trying to keep up.
During Elaine’s explanation, Daniel had walked to the table. He
now walked back with two champagne glasses and gave one to
Elaine. He handed the other one to Anne and sat on the edge of her
lounge chair. This surprised Anne, and she scooted back. But Daniel
appeared unphased. He examined Anne’s face for a moment, as if
assessing her. “Tell me, how did you end up working in a bookstore
in Ascona?” he asked, with a smile. Is he flirting with me, Anne
thought.
“There can’t be anyone interested in books here,” Poppy said,
interrupting. “It’s all Russian oligarchs and their painted wives
buying up property and art around here. Not books.”
“And we know all about the Russian wives,” Elaine laughed, and
Poppy joined in the private joke.
“We used to work together in a medical spa in the north of
Switzerland. Terribly exclusive and expensive,” Poppy said, indicating
herself and Elaine.
“So expensive that it priced itself out of business,” Daniel said,
smiling at Anne.
“Yes, I always thought that there would be an endless supply of
fools to pay the price of a small car for a treatment at the spa,”
interjected Maude. “I guess even oligarchs have their limits.”
 “Yes, anyhow,” Elaine cleared her throat. “Would you like
something to eat?” she said, turning to Anne.
“Yes, please,” said Anne, thankful for an opportunity to escape
Daniel. She walked up to the table with Elaine. Helping herself to
salad, Anne turned to Elaine, “Is this the meadow where the
painting with the young girl I saw inside was painted?”
“Yes, it actually is. Well spotted,” Elaine said. “And little has
changed since then, except for the trees getting a little taller,” she
turned and looked around.
“What a shame, though,” Nick spoke up. “If Cecilia had
continued painting, she could have been world famous.”
“What do you mean?” Anne asked.
“He means that Cecilia had the talent to rival any male painter
at the time, judging by her painting in the hall, but had to choose
between having babies and having a career,” Maud said, joining the
conversation. “Even though she was the one with the money and the
house, she had to bow to her husband’s wishes and become a
housewife,” Maude continued, raising her voice. “Typical,” she added.
“That’s why I’ve chosen to stay single.”
“Yes, that’s why,” said Elaine under her breath, but not quietly
enough. Maud threw her a withering look. Turning to Anne, Elain
said, “Paolo thought the painting might be worth something, even if
it was from a virtually unknown artist. He suggested getting it
valued.”
“Poor Paolo,” said Nick, shaking his head. “Never could resist the
bottle.”
“What a fool for trying to go boating at that hour in that state,”
Elaine added.
“Oh, enough of this doom and gloom,” Poppy said, getting up
from her chair. “I’m sorry he’s dead. Death is horrible. Bad luck and
all, but he wasn’t a nice person. He gave me the creeps.”
“Poppy!” Elaine exclaimed. “What a beastly thing to say of a
dead person!”
Poppy didn’t pay her any attention. “Time to work off that
lunch. Let’s dance, shall we,” she walked toward the table and
fumbled with her phone. A dance song came on from a speaker on
the table, set among the plates.
Poppy sauntered towards Daniel. Her toned body moved
gracefully to the beat of the music. She may have only been wearing
a simple dress, but it fit her like couture, Anne noticed. Poppy pulled
on Daniel’s hand to join her.
Maud groaned, put her sunglasses on, and turned her face to
the sun. Elaine walked over to Nick and started talking to him in a
low tone.
Anne hoped Daniel would join Poppy so she could get her chair
back.
 7 A Bishop’s curse
Daniel had relented and was now dancing with Poppy. Anne had
taken the opportunity to sit back down and soak up the sun, while
the others had gone on talking. The warm sun, the gentle breeze
from the lake, and the buzzing insects lulled Anne into a state
between relaxing and dozing off.
A crash through the bushes startled Anne. She opened her eyes
and saw a dark figure coming out of the forest into the clearing of
the meadow.
“In nomine Domini!” the dark figure yelled. “Enough! What are
you all still doing here? Get out! Get off this island! It is not yours. It
belongs to the church!” The man kept coming forward, slowly, as if
stalking some invisible prey. Anne saw he wore the long black
cassock and white collar of a priest. “You heathens! How many times
do I need to warn you? The Bishop has spoken. No human shall set
foot on this island.” Now standing in the middle, surrounded by the
lounge chairs, he delivered his speech with hands outstretched to
the sky, “Be gone!” Then, turning towards the table, “And turn off
that awful music!” he said, somewhat out of character.
He reminded Anne of the fire and brimstone Scottish preachers
she had encountered in books, but this one with a British accent.
No one seemed disturbed by the whole incident.
“Get off of it, James,” Nick said. “Oh, sorry, Padre Giacomo,” he
enunciated his name, and laughed, shaking his head, as if in
disbelief.
Is this some sort of practical joke, Anne though.
“Yes, Padre Giacomo,” said Poppy, stressing his name as well.
“We are guests of Barbara. You have no authority here. Go hide in
your dark tower,” Poppy said, with venom in her voice. “You are
pathetic,” she stalked towards him like a lioness interrupted from
enjoying her fresh kill. “Bugger off,” she said, pointing towards the
church tower.
 As if coming out of a trance, James–Padre Giacomo–just stood
there for a moment. He searched the faces of those around him. His
clear blue eyes settled on Anne–the odd one out. Color crept up his
neck and pale face. A gust of wind loosened a lock of blond hair and
it fell over his forehead. He was younger than Anne first had
thought. Finally, he looked away from Anne, pushed the hair back
into place, and straightened his back.
He started backing out of the clearing and said, “Remember the
curse. Paolo’s death was not an accident. More deaths will follow.”
His voice was rising, “This island is cursed. No one shall set foot here
but a man of God. Remember the words of the Bishop!” He was now
at the edge of the forest and meadow, and his voice had risen to its
previous crescendo, “Igitur qui desiderat pacem, praeparet bellum!”
And as the forest engulfed his dark shape, he yelled, “Igne natura
renovatur integra.”
Silence descended over the group. Everyone just looked at the
spot where the forest had swallowed him. After a moment Elaine
turned to Anne, “Sorry you had to witness that.”
“Who was that?” Anne breathed her question.
“That was James, Barbara’s son,” Elaine said. “Padre Giacomo,
as he is now known. He is the priest at St. Ignatius,” Elaine pointed
to the bell tower, “the church here on the island. Hard to believe that
a few years ago we were all hanging out at the same parties,” she
said.
“And what was he saying at the end? Was that the curse? Was
that Italian?” Anne asked.
“Latin,” said Daniel, turning towards Anne. “Roughly translated
he said, ‘Whoever desires peace, let him prepare for war,’ and
‘Through fire, nature is reborn whole’. That last one is his favorite.
He’s got it into his head that the only way to break the curse is
through fire. Nothing to worry about, though. It’s not his first
outburst. Just schoolboy Latin,” Daniel smiled as if to dismiss the
whole affair. “He’s always threatening to burn this island down, drive
all of us sinners away, and rebuild it in the name of God.”
Daniel pushed a hand through his hair. “I must apologize for my
cousin. He has always had a flair for the dramatic. And he has not
gotten over the fact that my aunt wants to revive this art colony. A
few years ago, James had a mental breakdown, broken heart or
something, and joined the Catholic Church. He went to Italy to atone
for his sins. The Bishop of Milan, who cursed this place, was a
distant relative of his. And mine,” Daniel explained.
“Very distant!” Poppy interrupted, with an indignant tone in her
voice. “The bloody curse is from the bloody 1400s,” she raised her
voice. “He is only using it as an excuse to drive us off the island,”
she said, with a matter-of-fact certainty.
No one bothered to explain the curse. Just like Anne, everyone
seemed to be familiar with it. Anne didn’t want to ask any questions
about it and how the Bishop was exactly related to the family, but
the exchange had disturbed her.
“You don’t think he is capable of doing more than just using
words?” Anne asked. “You heard him, talking about Paolo’s death,
threatening war?”
“No,” Daniel said, shaking his head. “James is a sweet, gentle
soul. It’s all an act. He wants to keep the island all to himself and
the church.”
“Wouldn’t he be inheriting the whole place anyway?”Anne
asked, caught up in the family drama.
“Not if my aunt has anything to do with it. That’s why she is
reviving this art colony,” he swept his hand, showing off the island.
“If the art colony proves to be viable, she will transfer the island to a
trust, thus removing it, the house, and the church from the line of
inheritance, and James.”
“That’s awful,” Anne said. She thought of her own loving
parents and reminded herself to call them.
“There are a lot of family issues running really deep,” Daniel
said. “But suffice to say that my aunt doesn’t approve of James’
choice of vocation. She takes it as a personal affront. And it probably
is, given her lack of mothering, and constant pursuit of artistic
expression. And she couldn’t live down the indignity that James
picked the Catholic Church.”
A boat horn cut through the quiet gloom that had settled over
the recently merry group.
 “That’s the grocer’s boat.” Elaine jumped up from her chair.
“Anne, I’ll walk you to the dock.”
Anne waved goodbye and walked down to the lake with Elaine.
At the dock, a man, in an Italian grandfathers’ cap, was
unloading boxes of wine bottles and flat crates full of produce and
bread off a boat. Anne stood beside Elaine while she spoke to the
man in Italian. From the animated pointing towards herself and
Ascona, Anne gathered they were negotiating her trip back to the
mainland. Anne smiled at the man, hoping that would seal the deal.
While waiting for the last boxes to come off the boat, Anne got
the distinct feeling that she was being watched. She turned around
and looked up at the house. She searched the windows. Her
attention was suddenly caught by a movement in the bushes near
the construction. But she couldn’t see anyone. Must have been a
bird, Anne shook off the uneasy feeling.
The unloading complete, Anne thanked Elaine for her
hospitality, and got in the boat.
She turned to the island as they motored away. Who knows if
I’ll ever be back on this island, Anne thought. What a sad place. Her
thoughts drifted back to the incident with the priest, and to Paolo’s
fatal accident, and a chill passed through her body, despite the warm
sun on her back. Could this place really be cursed? The priest’s
words sounded like threats to her. Why did he say Paolo’s death was
not an accident? Did he know something? Anne was concerned that
all those people on the island who knew James from before his
mental breakdown couldn’t see him clearly now. To her, he looked
deranged, sounded delusional, and she worried that he was
dangerous. James had everything to lose if the art colony went
ahead and was successful. Was he sabotaging the art colony? Did he
kill Paolo?
As Anne sank deeper and deeper into dark thoughts, the boat
sailed towards Ascona. Rounding the Brissago Islands, the colorful
Old Town came into view, now bathed in warm afternoon light. Anne
decided to share all that had happened with Marco, and her unease
dissipated.
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“I don’t know—oh, Hazel—what made you think that? I haven’t said
one word—not for a long time yet,” she stammered incoherently.
“I’m not exactly surprised,” remarked her cousin calmly. “You were
always much too good for this world, darling; but do you think you’d
be happy in a convent?”
“Of course I should be happy. But I don’t know if—if they’d even
have me. Oh, Hazel, it makes it all seem so much more real when
we talk about it like this. I’ve not told anybody at all—not even
Rosamund.”
“I won’t tell a soul,” promised Hazel. “I don’t know anything about
convents at all, but there are some sisters who call for subscriptions
sometimes at Marleswood, and they always look very nice and
happy.”
“Nuns are always happy,” said Frances seriously.
“Are they? I wish I knew more about them, and what sort of life they
have to lead. I suppose it’s nice and peaceful and holy, if you like
that sort of thing. Do you feel as though you had a vocation, or
whatever it is, Frances?”
Frances said nothing, only looked at Hazel with large, distressed
eyes.
“I’m talking of what I know nothing about,” declared Lady
Marleswood, kissing her affectionately. “I won’t bother you about it,
but if they worry you at Porthlew, when they know, you can come to
us just whenever you like and for as long as you like. Nobody shall
say anything to you, and you can go to church all day if you want to.”
“Oh, Hazel, how nice you are!”
“Good-night, Francie darling. Do remember that the only thing is to
follow one’s own convictions quite regardless of anything and
everyone. I know it sounds dreadful, but look at me! I’m a living
example of the advantages of self-will. Now I must go and say good-
night to mother.”
Hazel left Frances to the realization that her hitherto unspoken
desire had gained the strangest degree of life and substance from
the mere facts of having been put into words, and received almost as
a matter of course.
“Hazel seemed to think it quite natural, and not at all dreadful,”
Frances thought to herself. “Perhaps Cousin Bertie won’t mind as
much as I think she’s going to. I know I’m a moral coward, because
I’m more afraid of telling her, for fear she should be angry, than of
telling Rosamund, who’ll only be dreadfully unhappy. But I needn’t
think of it yet. Father Anselm said I was not to think of the future at
all, or to make plans....”
She lost herself in surmises, that almost amounted to certainties, as
to the interpretation her confessor had put upon her timidly vague
references to her own future. That the shrewd little French Superior
had penetrated her scarcely apprehended secret, Frances felt hardly
any doubt.
“They’ll tell me what to do when the time comes,” she thought with a
quickly beating heart, and remembered thankfully her new-found
allegiance.
The day following, Mrs. Tregaskis and Frances went down to
Cornwall.
Frances felt as though she had been away for a lifetime, and had to
combat an unreasonable tendency to astonishment at finding her
surroundings utterly unchanged.
It was a relief to her that no allusion was made at first to that change
in herself of which she felt so acutely conscious.
Frederick, rather as though the words were dragged out of him under
protest, asked for news of Hazel, and Miss Blandflower squeaked
ecstatic inquiries about the baby.
“Is the dear little man like Hazel?”
“Not very like her,” said Bertha rather slowly. “His eyes are dark blue,
for one thing.”
Everyone remembered Sir Guy’s remarkably dark blue eyes, with the
apparent exception of the unfortunate Minnie, who exclaimed in a
high-pitched key of astonishment:
“Now where can he get that from? Yours are so very brown, dear
Mrs. Tregaskis, and Hazel’s, as we know, match her name.”
“By some extraordinary coincidence,” said Frederick’s disagreeable
voice, “the child has inherited his father’s eyes.”
Miss Blandflower looked confused, laughed a good deal in a nervous
way, and made a characteristic attempt to retrieve her verbal footing
by embarking upon a disastrous quotation:
“Ah well, it’s a wise child that——”
“Give me a bun, Minnie,” said Bertha in loud, commanding tones. “I
be starvin’ for my tay. Why, Francie and I haven’t had a blow-out like
this for I don’t know how long. Tea at the convent consisted of
stewed twigs and a Marie biscuit, eh, Frances? that is to say, when
we got any all.”
“There wasn’t very much,” Frances admitted reluctantly, and without
smiling.
“There was not indeed! And that Mrs. Mulholland has the appetite of
a cormorant, positively.”
Few feminine indictments can be much more virulent than the
charge of “having an appetite,” and there was a distinct quality of
venom in Mrs. Tregaskis’ tone.
“Is that the one Mrs. Severing talked about?” asked Rosamund.
“Yes, as though she were her dearest friend. Poor Nina’s gush is
sometimes apt to be misleading,” laughed Bertha tolerantly. “Has
she been over here, Rosamund?”
“She came yesterday, to see if you were back.”
“Any news?”
“There’s to be a concert at Polwerrow on the twentieth, and she
wants to take us all. She’ll call for us in the car and bring us back.”
“Excellent. A deep draught of music is just what I want. Anyone good
coming down? I suppose so, or Nina wouldn’t condescend.”
“Some violinist—I can’t remember his name.”
“You wouldn’t!” laughed Bertha. “Well, my dear, that’ll be very jolly. I
love an outing, and there’ll be plenty of room in the car for all of us.”
“Mrs. Severing was kind enough to suggest my coming too—room
for a small one,” said Minnie agitatedly. “Of course I said it wasn’t to
be thought of for a moment.”
“Minnie, you know you like music, and you always go with us to any
decent concert at Polwerrow,” said Bertha patiently. “Of course you’ll
come.”
Under cover of the protests, incoherent objections, and final yielding,
which were always part and parcel of any invitation issued to and
accepted by Miss Blandflower, Rosamund and Frances made their
escape.
Their long talk together left Frances very happy. She gave
Rosamund no such confidence as that sudden, unpremeditated one
which had been drawn from her by Hazel’s matter of fact suggestion,
but nevertheless she was all but unconscious of any reticence.
It was to Rosamund that she could best pour out the story of her new
experiences, and the fullness of Rosamund’s sympathy gave no hint
of any sense of exclusion.
If a division of the ways had been reached neither was conscious of
it. To Rosamund, her sister’s happiness, in itself unintelligible,
became merely a subject for rejoicing, and the ready congratulations
she gave out of her affection needed no deeper source to fill Frances
with tender gratitude.
They drew nearer together in the very difference that might have
separated them for a time.
 XIX
ONLY the Polwerrow concert broke the monotony of the months that
followed. It was not a very great event, but it was on that evening
that Rosamund, by one of the agonized intuitions that are among the
penalties borne by the too highly-strung, first began to suspect what
Frances had in mind.
They drove to Polwerrow in Mrs. Severing’s car, and made their way
into the reserved stalls selected by Nina.
“Don’t push, as the elephant said to the flea when the animals went
in two by two,” Miss Blandflower muttered to herself, but, as usual,
no one paid any attention to her.
They listened to much inferior singing: Bertha with a look of well-bred
tolerance, Nina with closed eyes and a small, excruciated frown.
Rosamund sat next to Frances.
She wondered idly what dreams her little sister wove into the playing
of the famous violinist. Frances’ face was absorbed, and her eyes
quite unseeing. Rosamund thought that she looked very happy, as
though her dreams were pleasant ones. Was she thinking of the
ideals and aspirations newly revealed to her in the Catholic Church,
Rosamund wondered. That Frances was finding the greatest
happiness that her short life had as yet known, she felt no doubt, but
she also wondered with quite unconscious cynicism how long that
happiness would continue. Once received into the Church, it seemed
to Rosamund, there appeared to be nothing further to which her
sister could aspire, except, perhaps, to live quite near a Catholic
church.
“There isn’t one anywhere very near in the Wye Valley,” Rosamund
reflected. “I wonder if Francie will mind that, when we live there
together. But she can go to her convent sometimes and stay there
for a little while, if she wants to. They were kind and nice to her. She
likes the convent.”
And it was then that there flashed across Rosamund’s
consciousness the first sickening, unreasoning suspicion, carrying
with it all the anguish of certainty, that Frances would want to go and
be a nun.
Shocked, as from a physical pang, she held on to the arms of her
stall as though afraid of falling.
There was a pause in the music, and a faint sound or two as of
uncertain applause. Rosamund saw Miss Blandflower begin to clap
her hands enthusiastically, then turn doubtful eyes on Mrs. Severing,
who had not moved, and begin to fumble with her gloves as though
she had never meant to do anything else. The plaintive, poignant
strains of the violin began again.
Rosamund suddenly felt that she dared not look at Frances, for fear
of seeing in her face some mysterious confirmation of her own
thoughts.
For a little while she argued with herself. It was absurd to jump at
conclusions. Frances had never spoken, or given any hint, of wishing
to become a nun. And even supposing she were infatuated with the
idea for a time, her guardian would be the last person to encourage
such a step. It would all be stopped and forbidden, and Frances
would never be wilfully disobedient.
Such a thing could not happen—no one entered a convent
nowadays. It was in medieval times that girls of one’s own class
became nuns—not nowadays. A convent had been a refuge from the
world, then. Involuntarily Rosamund wondered whether it would not
present itself in exactly that light to Frances, now. “But she’s not
going to—she can’t. Why, it would mean shutting herself up away
from me—for the whole of her life,” thought Rosamund wildly.
She tried to look at it reasonably, to tell herself that this full-grown
certainty which had suddenly sprung into being within her, was
without any foundation in fact. She reminded herself of Cousin
Bertie’s favourite advice, not to cross bridges before they were
reached. But Rosamund happened to possess that fundamental
form of sincerity which cannot blind itself to its own inner vision, and
not all the wisdom of common sense and of Cousin Bertie’s
optimistic philosophy, weighed against that one unreasoning flash of
intuition.
A sudden craving for reassurance seized her uncontrollably.
She looked at Frances.
The last notes of the violin died away, and this time everyone broke
into applause at once, and Miss Blandflower was able to clap
fearlessly and noisily with the others.
Under cover of it all Rosamund leant towards her sister.
“Francie,” she said urgently, “you wouldn’t ever want to be a nun,
would you? Promise me you wouldn’t.”
Perhaps there was some faint ray of hope underlying the wording of
Rosamund’s sudden appeal. For it was with a new and even more
bitter pang that the last certainty came to her, as Frances, without a
single word of answer, raised startled, almost terrified eyes to hers,
and as their looks met, blushed a deep, painful scarlet.
Words between them were unnecessary, nor could either have
spoken.
The concert went on, and Rosamund wished that it could never stop.
In the blur of sound which seemed to surround her, she did not think
that she would ever realize what had happened. It would all remain
chaotic and unreal.
There was a little movement beside her, and Frances’ small, soft
hand sought hers, like that of a child seeking reassurance.
They did not look at one another, but for a moment their hands clung
together.
“Shall we make a move now, before the crush?” said Mrs. Severing
wearily. “Some of these renderings are really rather more than I can
stand.”
Bertha shrugged her shoulders very slightly, and looked at
Rosamund and Frances.
“Come out of the moon, Rosamund. You don’t look half awake, my
child. We want to get out of this before everyone begins to crowd.
Come along, Minnie, come along.”
Rosamund, in a dream, followed the wide, efficient figure of her
guardian. Miss Blandflower had jammed a small rabbit-skin tie into
the back of her stall, and, wrestling with it in an agony, was blocking
the exit for both Frances and Mrs. Severing.
“Oh, my fur—dear me, isn’t that tiresome, now! So sorry—do excuse
me....”
It was not difficult to conjecture that Miss Blandflower was trampling
recklessly over the feet on either side of her in her endeavours to
rescue the rabbit skin.
As she left the hall with Mrs. Tregaskis, Rosamund heard the last
glee begin, and exclamations issuing in the penetrating husky
falsetto which was peculiar to Miss Blandflower when whispering:
“Don’t wait for me—but I’m afraid you can’t get out—or could you
squeeze past? This wretched fur of mine. Simply beyond the
beyonds, isn’t it? Wait a minute—the deed is done—no, it isn’t—false
alarm. Oh, how dreadful of me this is ... you’ll never forgive me, I’m
afraid. Now then, a long pull and a strong pull....”
The door swung to behind Rosamund.
“Where are the others?” asked her guardian.
Cousin Bertie always made her way through any crowd without any
difficulty at all, partly because her bulk was considerable, and partly
from a certain pleasant authoritative way she had of saying, “Thank
you—if you’ll just let me get past, please—thank you so much.”
Rosamund had noticed long ago that very few people were ever
proof against that firm civility.
“Aren’t they coming?” said Mrs. Tregaskis, when they were in the
outer hall.
“Miss Blandflower’s fur got caught into her chair or something, and
the others couldn’t get past.”
“Wretched Minnie! Now they’ll have to wait until the end of that
chorus—Nina will never come out in the middle of it. How cross she’ll
be. Well, Rosamund, you and I may as well sit down and wait for
them here.”
Mrs. Tregaskis established herself on the red plush sofa underneath
an enlarged photograph of Mme. Clara Butt, and made room for
Rosamund beside her.
“You look rather tired, old lady,” she said kindly. Rosamund felt
suddenly grateful for the kindness of her voice and said:
“A little, Cousin Bertie.”
“A real deep draught of music always gives me a fresh lease of life,”
remarked Mrs. Tregaskis, drawing a deep breath that expanded her
broad chest yet more. “Not that we heard very much to-night, but the
violin was good, of course. Funny that music doesn’t mean more to
you two children, Rosamund. Your mother was wonderful. But still, I
hope you and Frances enjoyed this evening.”
“Oh yes,” said Rosamund colourlessly.
Her guardian looked rather dissatisfied.
“Why so down in the mouth, eh?” she asked genially.
Mrs. Tregaskis was always very quick to detect an atmosphere.
Rosamund hesitated.
She partly shared Frances’ old childish feeling that Mrs. Tregaskis
must always get just that answer which she expected to get, to her
kindly, peremptory questionings, and she was partly actuated by an
intense, miserable need of reassurance that made her turn even to a
source which she felt to be unlikely.
“I’m feeling rather worried about Frances,” she said rather nervously,
knowing that it was not a propitious beginning. Her tendency to
torment herself and the whole household on the subject of imaginary
anxieties about Frances’ health or spirits had been genially but quite
implacably combated by Mrs. Tregaskis ever since their first arrival
at Porthlew.
She gave a half-humorous sigh.
“Well, darling, I’m sorry to hear that. But it isn’t anything so very new,
is it? You’ve pulled a long face over Frances ever since I can
remember you both, when she was a little scared thing who didn’t
dare call her soul her own. I don’t mean you ever bullied her, my
dear—but there is such a thing as over-solicitude, you know.”
Accustomed though Rosamund was to her guardian’s kindly banter
on the subject of Frances, she had never ceased to resent it with the
wounded fury of an over-sensitive child.
Instantly she resolved that it would be impossible to tell Cousin
Bertie of her new-born dread.
“Well,” said Mrs. Tregaskis, “what is it this time? Is she tired, or has
she got a cold, or has Nina been hurting her feelings? Out with it.”
Rosamund asked herself desperately: “Why was I such a fool as to
begin this?” and aloud said in a sort of uncertain tone which to her
own ears sounded very unconvincing:
“I was just thinking of her having become a Catholic, and all that.
Whether—whether she’ll be happier now, or—want anything more.”
It was the nearest she could get to the sudden terror that had lain
like lead at her heart ever since that silent interchange of looks with
Frances.
“Want anything more!” Mrs. Tregaskis repeated rather derisively.
“Are you afraid of her asking to join the Salvation Army next? Upon
my word, Rosamund, I think better of the child than you do. She was
very silly and wrong-headed about it, but at least it was all perfectly
genuine, and she’s in earnest about the religious part of it.”
“Yes. I know she is. That’s just it.”
“My dear, don’t be a little goose. She’s ’verted to the faith that your
mother was born into, after all, and it’s perfectly natural that she
should take the whole thing very much to heart and prove a trifle
exaltée about it all. It’s a most wholesome symptom, I assure you,
and one I’ve been watching for. Presently there’ll be a reaction, and
then she’ll settle down normally, I hope. But you’ll do her much more
harm than good if you sit like a cat watching a mouse—waiting for
every sign. It will only make her self-conscious.”
Under the flow of so much common sense, such sound, kindly
advice, Rosamund had nothing to say. A creeping sensation of
numbness invaded her mind. She ceased to feel acutely unhappy or
apprehensive.
Mrs. Tregaskis, solid, competent, looking at her with rather puzzled
eyes, seemed a sufficient bulwark against any such ephemeral fears
as those which lay at Rosamund’s heart.
“My dear little girl,” said Bertha earnestly, “don’t go looking for
trouble. I’ll give you a piece of advice which has helped me over
some very rough bits of ground, rougher than any you’re ever likely
to meet with, please God:
“‘Look up, and not down;
Look out, and not in;
Look forward, and not back,
Lend a hand.’
That’s pretty well coloured my whole life, Rosamund. I wasn’t as old
as you are now when I first read those words, and I’ve never
forgotten them.”
There was a moment’s silence, and Mrs. Tregaskis’ fine eyes grew
for once introspective.
Then she roused herself briskly and exclaimed:
“Here are the others at last! Well, Nina, what happened to you?”
The drive home passed almost in silence. Mrs. Severing was
annoyed at having been delayed, and replied coldly to all Bertha’s
cheery assurances of enjoyment that much was lacking to the more
modern interpreters of music. Had not Bertie felt it so? Ah well,
perhaps not!
Miss Blandflower, contrite and incoherent, was responsible for most
of the conversation, such as it was.
That night Rosamund and Frances exchanged only a very few
words. Rosamund indeed did not feel that words were needed to
emphasize the unhappy certainty that was hers, and any discussion
seemed to distress Frances, who said stammeringly and with tears
in her eyes that nothing would be done for a long, long time, and
even Father Anselm and Mère Pauline didn’t know yet.
“Have you thought of what Cousin Bertie will say?”
“No,” said Frances, the sudden whitening of her face belying the
courage of her tone. “It’s no use thinking about that until the time
comes.”
“And when will it come?” Rosamund asked wonderingly.
“I don’t know. I suppose Father Anselm will settle that. He is my
director. Oh, Rosamund, it’s such a relief to know that one can’t do
wrong as long as one is obedient. I just have to submit my own
private judgment to what the Church teaches through her priests,
and it’s such a comfort.”
Rosamund marvelled.
But she saw that Frances, in spite of the lurking apprehensions for
the future which she so resolutely tried to put from her, was
essentially happy.
It seemed to Rosamund now that the weeks were slipping by with
incredible rapidity. She no longer thought of Morris Severing, and
was occasionally ashamed of her own oblivion. But the honesty
which in her was innate, did not allow her to falsify her own scale of
relative values, and she knew that Morris was relegated to the
unimportance of an episode.
After a little while she induced in herself a sort of surface sense of
reassurance about Frances. No one else ever hinted at any thought
of religious vocation, and Frances never spoke of it. Rosamund
thought wistfully that perhaps she had abandoned the idea and
sought to confirm the trembling hope that sometimes rose within her,
in tiny ways that she strove to persuade herself would mean a great
deal. She sometimes spoke to Frances of “next winter,” or asked if
she meant to get new frocks for going, later on, to stay with Hazel in
London, and Frances always answered naturally and without demur.
But Rosamund did not dare to make any allusion to their old plan of
going back to live together in the Wye Valley.
It seemed as if life at Porthlew would always consist of the same
uneventful routine, and Rosamund, far from feeling it tedious, found
herself regarding each monotonous day as it slipped past in the light
of a respite.
But the sword of Damocles fell at last, when her anxiety was almost
dormant.
“Francie, my child, there’s quite a large mail for you to-day,” cheerily
exclaimed Bertha, distributing the letters. “Two fat envelopes.”
“I always say that Frances mustn’t expect to get many letters,
because she seldom writes any,” said Miss Blandflower with an air of
sapience.
Frances took her correspondence without saying anything, but
something in her face brought Rosamund’s every apprehension to
life again in one unreasoning rush of terror.
She restrained herself with difficulty from making inquiries of her
sister when breakfast was over, but in the course of the morning
Frances sought Rosamund in the garden of her own accord.
“I’ve heard from Father Anselm and from Mère Pauline,” she said
gently. She looked nervous, but not at all agitated. It was as though
she were stating the accomplishment of some long-expected project.
“I didn’t know you’d written to them,” said Rosamund dully.
“I thought it wasn’t any use to say anything till I had the answers,”
Frances said apologetically. “They might have told me to put the
whole thing out of my mind, you know.”
“They—they don’t do that, then?”
“No. I’ve brought the letters for you to read, Rosamund.”
The Prior of Twickenham’s letter was not a long one, and struck
Rosamund as that of a peculiarly simple and unworldly man. He told
Frances that he had long ago guessed the destiny which God held in
store for her, and that he believed her vocation to the religious life to
be a real one. She must speak to her guardians and obtain their
consent before taking any step. Meanwhile, she was to write freely
and to count upon his prayers that her decision might be guided and
blessed from above. There was little else in the letter, but something
in its tone of matter-of-fact acceptance frightened Rosamund.
Mère Pauline wrote at much greater length. She congratulated
Frances on “the great honour she had received” and promised her
many prayers, but after that she became at once characteristically
practical in her advice. If Frances’ director thought with her that she
was suited to their own form of convent life, then Mère Pauline would
be very glad to receive her, and meanwhile Frances must try and fit
herself to be of great use. She must take care of her health, so as to
be strong, and she must study, so as to be able to work, and above
all, she must not neglect prayer and meditation. And, added Mère
Pauline in a matter-of-fact postscript, it might be no bad plan to set
about learning Latin, for greater facility in the recitation of the Holy
Office. But she need not impress upon her dear child that, above all,
must the feelings of that family, so soon to be called upon for so
great a sacrifice, be tenderly considered.
“Frances!” said Rosamund aghast. “She writes as though the whole
thing were settled.”
Her little sister looked at her with compassionate, loving eyes, and
said nothing.
But Rosamund knew, more surely than any words could have told
her, that in effect, the whole thing, as she had said, was settled.
The conviction remained with her even when it became obvious that
the main conflict was yet to come.
“When are you going to tell them?” she asked later.
“Soon,” said Frances.
But that Frances’ courage had not yet proved equal to the avowal
was made manifest some weeks later when Rosamund, unnoticed in
the window, heard part of a conversation between Frederick
Tregaskis and his wife.
“I shall want the trap in the morning, Frederick. I’ve got to drive
Francie into Polwerrow.”
“Why?”
“Church, my dear man, church. It’s some holy Roman feast or other,
and I promised the child she should get in to Mass if possible.”
“Very unreasonable,” growled Frederick.
“I knew you’d say so, dear,” patiently replied Bertha, who was apt to
display tolerance of her ward’s inconvenient religion in proportion as
her husband grumbled at it. “I should have thought Sundays quite
enough, myself.”
“As to that,” replied the disconcerting Frederick, “she pays for her
own cab on Sundays and doesn’t inconvenience anyone but herself.
I’m not saying anything to her Sunday expeditions.”
“Well, well—it’s something to have peace. The child is perfectly
happy, and has looked much better since she stopped fretting.
Thank goodness, the religious crisis, since apparently she had to
have one, is safely over and done with.”
Rosamund wrung her hands together in silent anguish.
She did not know what Frances’ latest decision might portend, but
there seemed to stretch before her a despairing vista of pain and
separation, based on principles that appeared to her but as the
shadow of a dream.
 XX
IT was in a very little while that Mrs. Tregaskis became fully aware of
the fallacy in her hopeful theory that the crisis was over for the
younger of her two adopted daughters.
“I can’t think how I could ever have been so blind. Give children an
inch and they’ll take an ell! I might have guessed that Frances would
develop some fanatic notion of this kind. Why did I ever let her go to
that wretched convent? She’s thought of nothing else ever since,
and now she tells me that they’re ‘willing to receive her’ into the
novitiate there. Willing, indeed! I should think they were!”
“Of course, Bertie dear, if you let her get under the influence of
priests and nuns, what else can you expect?” inquired Mrs.
Severing.
“You can’t reproach me more than I do myself,” said Bertha
vehemently. “Though I must say, dearest, it’s rather laughable
coming from you, since you were the very person who urged me to
send the child to make that Retreat, and even insisted on going with
her yourself, if you remember.”
Nina looked at her greatest friend for a moment in silence, and then
said in the compassionate tones of a ministering angel:
“My poor dear! I can see that you’re so much on edge about the
whole thing, you simply don’t know what you’re saying. I am so sorry
for you.”
“Thank you, Nina,” said Mrs. Tregaskis rather dryly. “It would be
more to the point, perhaps, if you knew what to say to Frances. Do
you think you could put a little sense into her?”
The inquiry was more than tinged with doubtfulness, as Bertha eyed
her friend coldly, and Mrs. Severing, with a sudden access of
austerity, replied in accents grown markedly remote:
“Really, Bertie, you mustn’t ask me to come between Frances and
her conscience. I have a very great deal of influence with her, as you
know, and I shouldn’t care to take such a responsibility on myself.
The child’s instinct is a very pure and holy one, and personally I can’t
see why she shouldn’t follow her own inspiration. It may very well be
a God-given one.”
“I never heard such an outrageous piece of nonsense in my life,”
declared Mrs. Tregaskis, for once losing control of her temper.
“Anything to save trouble, Nina. That’s you all over. Always the line
of least resistance! Well, I’m not going to let Frances ruin her life by
taking a step of which she doesn’t even realize the meaning, before
she’s seen anything of life. Even Roman Catholics insist on their
daughters waiting until they’re of age before letting them enter a
convent.”
“I’m afraid Frances isn’t your daughter, Bertie, which may make all
the difference. Though really,” said Nina dreamily, “it doesn’t seem to
matter much nowadays, since the younger generation takes its own
line without reference to any standards but its own. The myth of
parental authority is altogether done away with.”
“Frances isn’t made of the same stuff as Morris, my dear. Well, if you
won’t or can’t help me, I must tackle the situation myself. It isn’t the
first time I’ve taken on a tough job single-handed, and it won’t be the
last, I don’t suppose. Ah well! it’s better to wear out than to rust out!”
In the ensuing weeks at Porthlew it appeared not unlikely that the
process of wearing out would extend to other members of the
household in addition to Mrs. Tregaskis.
Frances, white and exalted, spent her days in writing to the Prior of
Twickenham and to Mère Pauline and the major part of her nights in
tears. Only Rosamund realized how inflexible was the determination
that underlay her sobbing protests.
Miss Blandflower bleated frightened auguries and ejaculatory
condemnations, and Rosamund upheld Frances passionately and
told herself that it would only be an experiment, and that, of course,
Frances would never, never stay at the convent for life.
“Will they let you come away if you want to?” she asked tensely.
“Yes,” said Frances almost violently. “That’s what a novitiate is for.”
“Will you promise to come away if you find you’ve made a mistake?”
“I promise.”
“Then Cousin Bertie ought to let you go,” declared Rosamund, sick
with misery. “If it’s the only thing that will make you happy.”
For answer Frances began to cry again, piteously and silently, as
she used to cry when a child.
Rosamund, with the same despairing instinct of rebellion and
impotent protection that had been hers in the days when she had
resisted Bertha Tregaskis’ kindness to the little orphan sisters, put
her arms round Frances.
“Don’t cry,” she whispered. “I’ll go to Cousin Frederick, and he must
make Cousin Bertie give in. They’ve no real right to forbid you.”
She sought Frederick Tregaskis in the study which had become his
almost permanent refuge from the strained atmosphere now
prevalent at Porthlew.
He looked up angrily, and her heart failed her, but she began steadily
enough.
“I’ve come to speak to you about Frances——”
“I don’t wish to hear you. Everyone comes to speak to me about
Frances. When I come into this room, it is in order to avoid being
spoken to about Frances.”
“I know it is,” said Rosamund desperately. “But I only want to say
one thing, Cousin Frederick——”
“Then don’t say it in here. Come into some other part of the house.”
Rosamund followed the exasperated Frederick into the hall, where
he made a sound expressive of disgust on seeing Miss Blandflower,
wearing a large pair of yellow wash-leather gloves, arranging
flowers. Rosamund, however, was not even aware of the
governess’s presence.
“Frances is breaking her heart. She thinks that she is meant to be a
nun and that she ought not to wait indefinitely. Will you give her
leave to go? I don’t believe she’ll stay there long——”
“I’ve told her already that I’m not in a position to give or refuse leave.
She’s no daughter of mine.”
“It will satisfy her conscience if you will just say that she has your
consent,” urged Rosamund.
Minnie, listening hard in the background, muttered frantically:
“Conscience in truth makes cowards of us all; and how she can even
speak of such a thing!”
“She can have my consent for what it’s worth,” said Frederick
Tregaskis. “But she must fight it out for herself with your Cousin
Bertha.”
“That’s the worst of it——”
“Of course it’s the worst of it! And the sooner she puts an end to it
the better. This house is like a—shambles,” said Frederick in tones
which convinced Miss Blandflower, who did not know what the word
meant, that a shambles must be some recondite form of impropriety.
She became very red and uttered a shocked and protesting titter,
which had the effect of drawing Frederick’s eye upon her for a
searing moment before he again retreated to the impregnable study.
But Rosamund took comfort with her when she went back to
Frances.
“If it’s only Cousin Bertie,” said Frances rather surprisingly, “I don’t
mind so much. I know I’m frightened of her, though she’s so very,
very kind, but Father Anselm says that my first duty is to God, and
that it’s not as if she were really my mother. He thinks I ought to
enter now.”
“It’s only an experiment,” cried Rosamund entreatingly, but with a
sinking heart.
And Frances would not contradict her.
The days dragged by in an atmosphere of eternal discomfort.
Bertha’s face showed signs of wearing and of wakeful nights, but
she remained determinedly normal and even cheerful. Miss
Blandflower loyally supported her with chirping and obvious
contributions to the lagging conversation at meals and in the
evenings, and even Frances, pale-faced and with scared, sorrowful
eyes, made her evident and rather piteous attempts to behave as
usual in the face of a mental struggle that she felt to be only the
strength-sapping preliminary to an impending crisis of upheaval.
Rosamund, supersensitive to atmosphere, and bearing the weight of
her sister’s dumb unhappiness as well as that of her own rebellious,
apprehensive misery, began to feel that the only hope of relief for
any of them lay in the decisive cutting of the Gordian knot.
“This can’t go on, you know,” she said ruthlessly to Frances. “What
are you waiting for?”
“Waiting for?”
“Yes. Do you think Cousin Bertie will ever give in?”
“No.”
“Then do you mean to put the whole thing out of your mind till you’re
much older—say about twenty-five—and just submit, till then?”
Even as she spoke, Rosamund felt convinced that such a course
had not presented itself to Frances.
“No,” said Frances with the inflexible note in her childish voice that
Porthlew was learning to dread. “It wouldn’t be right to do that.
Father Anselm is a very wise priest and very holy, and he says I
ought to be brave and go now. If I am unfaithful to my vocation, it
may be taken away from me.”
Rosamund, quite unconscious of humour, reflected on the extreme
convenience of such a solution. She did not believe that any Divine
call had come to her sister, but she felt convinced that Frances
would know no rest until she had tested by experience the reality of
her religious vocation.
“You’d better go, I think,” she said abruptly.